WRiTE CLUB 2015 - Elimination Bout #4

Over
the past two weeks twenty writers have stepped into the WRiTE CLUB ring and ten emerged victorious. But before we call upon
the next twenty writers to do battle, first we must whittle our winners down to
five. This is called the elimination round because it’s the first time winners
face off against one another. Our ten winners will again be shuffled and --
like the first bouts -- randomly matched to compete against one another with
their same submission. A writer who emerges victorious from this round will
earn a spot in the play-offs and will be asked to submit a new 500 sample to
use in the next round. Let me remind you that our competitors are not only
scuffling for notoriety…recognition…a $75 Amazon gift card…but also free
admission to the 2016 DFW WritersConference, who helps sponsor this contest.

This
week I’ll be holding daily bouts (M-F) between the Anonymous 500 word
writing samples, submitted under a pen name by the winners of our first 10 rounds.The writing can be any genre, any style (even
poetry) with the word count being the only restriction. Today is Elimination Bout #4.Read each sample carefully and then leave a
vote in the comment section for the one that resonates with you the most.If you didn’t have a chance before, please leave
with a brief critique of both submissions as well.

As
it was with the early bouts, voting for each will remain open for one week. The
winner of each will be posted at the WRiTECLUB scoreboard.

Essa
hadn’t
realized that the Edge of the World would be so calm. Like the pause of
heartbeat and lung at the end of an exhalation, there was that same kind of
dead-air, of waiting, of uncertainty whether another breath could be drawn.

Far
different from journey along the rocky coastline, the capricious currents, and
the storms that shook and spun until her bearings were more tangled than a
rogue fishing line dredged-up from the reef.

The
water was still other than the ripple from her paddle and the bow of what had
once been a boat, before the waves, before the dark, before the wind that
scooped her like a gull scoops an oyster and dashes it to splinters.

This
was an uneasy quiet.

For
only gods and monsters lived at the end of the world, and Essa had come to beg
and barter. To sacrifice, if necessary, if that was the price asked. Out here,
or in the Wilds, there was no guarantee who would answer first: one who could
be persuaded to help, or one who would devour with the swift ruthlessness of a
winter gale.

She
lay the paddle down and drew a whale-bone knife from her pack. The trick was
where to cut, where it would bleed deep enough to summon, yet where it could
easily be bound. Hands were definitely out. It would be impossible to make the
long trek back.

If
there
was a long trek back.

Choosing
where to cut, that was a small, manageable decision. Thinking about what would
happen after...

Essa
lurched back, the paddle knocked wide with a splash. It was the reflection of
her own eyes that had spooked her. Too wide, too scared, too young-looking for
a warrior, for the one chosen and blessed by her village.

Blood
thrummed in her ears, pulled and pushed by the gravitational force of her fear.
She shut her eyes and drew a breath.

This
too was small. This too was manageable.

It
was important to master what was in her reach, because so much was not. Not the
ocean, not the sky, not the run of fish spawning in the rivers, and certainly
not the gods and monsters at the end of the world.

Retrieving
the paddle, yes, that was within her means. The seal-intestine towline was
strong, supple, and still tied tightly to her ankle. Essa pulled it in, hand
over hand, the paddle slicing a low wake until she fished it to safety.

She
crept forward and stared past her reflection, past the surface, past what she
could see and control, into the far-off deep. Each challenge, each step had
been building to this moment. She was strong. She was brave. She was loved. Her
blood would call a god, not a monster.

Enjoying
two talented writers at work is only part of the price of admission, now it’s
up to you to decide who moves forward.In the comments below leave your vote for the winner.Which one tickled your fancy?After you vote please tell all of your
friends to stop by and make a selection as well.Yes, it’s subjective, but so is the entire
publishing world.It’s as much about the
readers as it is about the writers.

This
is WRiTECLUB – the contest where the audience gets clobbered!

35 comments

Mobius - I like the imagery in this scene, very vivid. I think it can be brought up one more notch through some editing and tightening. When you take a metaphor or simile too far, it takes away its impact. You don't need to spell it out for the reader completely. Leave some room, some holes for the reader to plug in and the subtlety will reward you.

However, the cruelty/awesomefactor of this contest is who you are paired against. I don't think mobius could stand up for a minute against CJ Rage. It is just such a compact, dark, tight poem that makes you reflect your own demons. It hooks me by the first line. Mobius would make a great longer novel. But CJ Rage can stand all on its own. Great job to the both of you!